The Calm After The Cataclysmic Storm
by Beechy
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Angst, hurt, all the feels. Sorry. I really can't decide if it's slash or bromance, so you can do it for me. Please please please review, they will all be read.
1. Chapter 1

During the first few months after Sherlock's suicide, John Hamish Watson did not feel sad. He did not feel devastated, depressed, heartbroken or any emotion, for that matter. Because you can't feel empty. You can't feel the nothing which fills the mangled, gaping hole, the hopeless, foreboding abyss of the loss of the only person who ever really mattered. Before Sherlock, John merely had a couple of inconsistent acquaintances, Mike Stamford, for example, and a sister who's conversations with John only ever consisted of complaints about either her apparently unfaithful partner Clara or the increasing price of alcohol. Lestrade would undoubtedly remain clueless as to how to deal with John's undisguised grief and would eventually, inevitably, lose contact with this frightening shell of a man he used to know so well. Worrying Mrs Hudson would cause her stress, therefore putting unwanted and unnecessary strain on her deteriorating hip, which was the last thing John wanted. Thus, John Watson was utterly alone. He had packed up his things and moved out of 221B Baker Street and back into his old apartment, grey and lifeless, rather like himself. He stopped taking his route to work via Scotland Yard, stopped going to Chinese restaurants for dim sum and eventually stopped being John Hamish Watson altogether and started to be someone he didn't quite know himself.

Sherlock Holmes however, was living quite contentedly in the company (and apartment) of Molly Hooper. Well, when one says contentedly, in this situation, they really mean in agony. Had Sherlock been able to reveal himself to John immediately after his 'death', he would have gladly done so. But John's mind, as Sherlock had so often reassured him, was not only placid and vacant, but straightforward. And although Sherlock, the heartless sociopath that he was, was not incredibly learned in social skills, he knew that in allowing John to know that he still existed, he would be putting John's mental stability at a huge risk and would undoubtedly ruin their friendship. Sherlock often would sit, knees hunched up close to his chest, on Molly's couch listing all the possible ways he could resurrect from the dead without causing John's inevitable mental breakdown, which usually ended up with Sherlock dragging his hands through his dark, curly locks and momentarily fisting them tight, before shouting at Molly for gently rearranging his latest experiment and glare at her run from the room with tears in her large, mouse-like eyes. The worst thing about this whole situation was the ridiculous, stupid fact that Sherlock actually cared in the first place. Why did he care? Why _should _he care about John? Sherlock Holmes was a legitimate genius; he did not have time for mere feelings, emotions. And yet, he did care. He cared a considerable amount, actually. That was made clear to him when he realised that he was willing to – and did – risk his life for John, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade of course, but John was priority. 'Sentiment', he had said to Irene Adler all those months previously, 'is found only the losing side.' How right he had been.

John meanwhile, hopelessly meandered the various different streets of London, trying, after all eleven months, to pull the mangled remains of his life back together. Trying to secure a job. Trying to secure his financial risks. Trying to secure his mental stability. He was back to square one, back to where he had been before Sherlock. He had always felt similar to a dull moth next to Sherlock's brilliant flame of intelligence, hovering in the comfort of the warmth and light, but knowing all too soon that he would be burned out by Sherlock's brilliance. Without that flame, it seemed, John was lost.

Molly adored Sherlock's presence; the endless monotony of his somewhat unnerving habit of laying on the couch, his hands in a prayer position beneath his chin, the numerous human toes cluttering the kitchen table, Even when he insulted her intelligence and repeatedly assured her how simple minded she was - which was very often and deemed to be his favourite pastime since the lack of Anderson. But the thing that Molly Hooper loved most about Sherlock was the fact that he had chosen _her_ to help him, that he trusted _her_ the most. But she knew how fruitless tight-fitting tops and ridiculously priced lipsticks were, as not only would Sherlock not notice them (and if he did, he would undoubtedly 'delete' them) but through the process make Molly again realise that although she mattered to Sherlock, she would never be more than a friend, a companion, to him. Because there were no two people suited to each other more than Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.

How long Sherlock would last without John, she did not know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note: Okay, this is the second chapter of 'The Calm After The Cataclysmic Storm' so please read and review if you enjoyed the first one, all reviews will undoubtedly be read and taken into account!**

After 5 months, 2 weeks and 4 days, Sherlock could stand it no longer. The endless void of self-pity and longing for John would not swallow him up. He wouldn't allow it. Of course, he hadn't exactly been careful before now; using various different disguises and hair-dyes, he had ventured out onto the moon-lit streets of London more than once, just to relish in the comfort of black taxis, red buses, Tower Bridge and even the Eye, lit up in all its splendour. Everything he had called home. Except for, of course, the direct meaning of the word. He hadn't dared set foot in Baker Street, or anywhere that coincided with his previous life. For fear of being recognised, fear of seeing his own face, wearing that ridiculous deerstalker, slapped on six different tabloids, with the caption 'Fake Genius Commits Suicide'. Until now.

So it was with a sub-conscious spring in his step that Sherlock headed towards 221B. He breathed in deeply through his nose, allowing his lungs to be filled with the nostalgic, smoky taste of Baker Street, beckoning him forwards. The pattern of the uneven cobbles beneath him, smoothed and weathered, would have conveyed to him that he was within spitting distance of 221B even if his eyes weren't wide open, scanning the empty street for signs of anyone who might spot him. He was now standing directly beneath Speedy's, gazing up at his former home, where he knew Mrs. Hudson to be sleeping. Somewhat fond memories struck him of unceremoniously throwing her attacker out of the second story of the flat before him.

It was Lestrade's apartment that he visited next, sandwiched between the other flats situated in the same block. Sherlock knew it to be the right one from one of the numerous wallets he had stolen from his back pocket, if Greg ever exceeded the correct level of tediousness. This particular block of flats was only a convenient five minute walk away from Scotland Yard, and stood towering over a couple of smaller, meeker terrace houses beneath it. Sherlock smirked to himself at the re-enactment of a typical scenario at Scotland Yard, letting his imagination take flight as the Anderson-and-Donovan terrace houses crumbled under the Lestrade-block-of-flats' authority. He stopped suddenly. As much as he enjoyed fantasising about how stupidly pathetic Anderson was, that was not the point of his expedition. He continued along the streets of London, not taking a second glance at Lestrade's home.

His last stop was on the outskirts of London and took the longest to reach. John's flat was grey, dull and lifeless. The concrete-grey building was surrounded by a slate-grey sky (for it was reaching the early hours of the morning), and Sherlock knew John to be sleeping inside this unoriginal, unimaginative prison. Cut off from the rest of the world. The thought unnerved Sherlock. John did not know (or even, Sherlock wrongly presumed, cared) that his apparently dead friend was below him, keeping his silent vigil and watching John fall into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

oOo

But little did Sherlock know that John's slumber was hardly blissful, and was plagued by graphic nightmares. Within John's mind stood a marble-white figure, forever frozen with a scream eternally etched on his blood-spattered face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Authors Note: Argh, this chapter was a little rushed, as I have a theory exam to revise for and fanfiction (I hate to say it) is decidedly not priority. But please review if you like it!**

It was only the fourth time that John received one of his unknown visits from Sherlock that he noticed something was wrong. He had woken from yet another Sherlock-related dream to find his body drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. It was hot in his dingy room, humid. John had unwillingly dragged himself out of bed to open his window and find relief in the cool night air that awaited him there. He found, or thought he found, something else entirely. A figure, a dark and curly-haired, tall figure, wearing an unmistakable coat. Running behind the corner of that cold grey street.

John awoke the next morning, convinced it had only been a dream.

oOo

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes paced up and down Molly's sitting room and scolded himself for being so incredibly stupid. He had been so careful, up till now. Sherlock only hoped that John might have thought himself delirious, or perhaps dreaming when he had seen Sherlock run from where he had been silently watching John's flat, ironically slipping on a rouge tabloid crumpled on the ground, the words 'FAKE' and 'SUICIDE' just visible beneath the wet and crumpled folds of the newsprint.

Sherlock had initially thought that being so close to John would stop the thousands of thoughts rampaging around his head, release that rocket trapped on the launch pad, such as a particularly strenuous case would have done, had he not had to leave that past behind him. But although John somewhat reminded Sherlock of the large amounts of cocaine he used to generously pump into his bloodstream, unlike the other drugs he had so often taken (morphine, heroine, not to mention his beloved cigarettes), being within spitting distance of John, but simultaneously being unable to tell him, shout at him that he was alive was utter agony. It just aggravated and increased the cravings, the addictions. The situation was, Sherlock confirmed, similar to a deep depression after the calming euphoria of smoking tobacco.

But a mere slip-up like this wasn't going to be enough to stop Sherlock…

oOo

Insanity, John decided, was the only logical reason. Illusions, mirages, they all meant one thing. And after John decided that it wasn't down to dehydration, he began to seriously worry about his mental stability. Why else would it have happened? A second time. In broad daylight. Thus completely ruling out the possibility of mere nightmares being the cause of what he had seen whilst walking through St James' park yesterday morning.

It had been only a fleeting glance, that was certain. He could have simply dismissed the idea that he had seen it, not even entertained the possibility as soon as it had vanished. Blamed it on a trick of the light. Or perhaps a stray dog. But John knew what he had seen, Sherlock's vintage blue scarf was unmistakeable, especially to someone who knew him so well. And so to see that iconic blue scarf, vibrantly azure against the red brick building which it was fluttering behind with the slightly frayed end just visible, worn out from the various cases it had endured with its owner, chilled John to his very core. He thought back to the night when he had seen something, or an unmistakeable someone, run from his grey moonlit street, and seriously began to contemplate whether he really had been dreaming that night, and whether it had any connection with today's scenario.


End file.
